If my Mom found out, she’d kill me. It’s not you—not a bit. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. ” She stopped with an air of interrogation. I am gambling on his intuition. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. . Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round.
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